


The price of victory

by orphan_account



Series: War and Peace [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Established Relationship, F/F, Flogging, Hanging, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mutilation, Pirate Husbands, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 03:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7027453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Silver was making a habit of sacrificing himself for their cause.  This might be the final time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The pistol

**Author's Note:**

> So, in this Flint and Silver are established pirate husbands. I don't really know where it came from but it was in my head and now it is on here...hope people enjoy!

Flint had never been overly fond of Teach. He found him arrogant, radical and overly self-assured. He had begrudgingly accepted the older man as a necessary ally in the war to retake Nassau but now, as he stood helplessly listening to leather slicing through the flesh of the man he loved, he found a renewed hatred for the man.

Teach’s plan had been a reasonable one, if Flint was being objective about it. But it was extremely difficult to be objective right now.

Flint had been the one to propose that, given their recent success in recruiting support from both Nassau and Tortuga, they might have sufficient numbers to launch a final assault to reclaim their home. They had allies within Nassau itself and a rather formidable fleet at their disposal. All they needed was a robust strategy for their final move.

Teach put forth a proposal for this strategy. They would need a decoy, something to distract their enemies to reduce resistance. What better decoy than the afeared phantom, Long John Silver?

Of course Jack would agree. Always eager to impress a man who even Charles Vane had admired, however, he went further. He insisted that they needed not a decoy but a distraction. A way to guarantee all enemy eyes were drawn to John Silver. Executions made excellent distractions, apparently. Flint had glared daggers at Jack and nearly shouted him into the ground.

But then Silver just had to speak. Just had to use his almost inhuman powers of manipulation. They in fact needed not a decoy and not a distraction, but a spectacle. How best to ensure a spectacle? Anger the least reasonable person of power in Nassau - Eleanor Guthrie. Silver was excellent at inspiring emotions in men. Evidently that extended to this formidable woman.

And so here they were. Silver on his knees, topless and bootless, shackled to a post in the square receiving a public flogging - one lash for every naval officer killed in this war - and Flint, waiting for the climax of the spectacle to attack. The climax, of course, being Silver’s hanging.

Billy was in the crowd with a loaded pistol. His role was to shoot down the hangman before he could get the noose tightened around Silver’s neck. Flint tried not to think about the frequency with which pistols failed to fire.

Silver never cried out. Never screamed. He knew the importance of making a powerful impression now. This was the last chance to gain recruits to their cause. He had to show the same strength Charles Vane had. Needed to inspire the same faith, the same admiration, as he had.

Therefore, Silver didn’t scream. Even when he had been forced to the dirt in front of the post, his empty stump being driven into the hard ground. Even when the lashes began. Even when they started to layer upon already broken flesh and reach to the bone. Flint didn’t want to look, but somehow he felt that if he had the strength to watch then Silver might have the strength to endure.

So he watched. Observed through a gap in the blinds every blow to his husband’s back. Saw blood spray out and tarnish the beautiful pitch curls that were pulled over his shoulders - an assurance that nothing could cushion the impact of the whip on his skin.

Every lash was intended to scar, to tear flesh from the monster’s bones.

At last the final one came. Silver was barely conscious when they pulled him from the floor and dragged him up the plinth to the gallows. From his position Flint could not see Billy in the crowd. He was there. He had to be there. He had to be ready.

Flint didn’t breath. No one did. The inn was deathly silent as every member of the Walrus crew waited. Any naval officer indoors in Nassau would have been taken out by Teach’s men by now. It was just those occupying street left. Max had agreed to allow them use of the inn as a hideout. She was acutely aware of the way things were headed with Eleanor’s growing power over the place, and the brutal punishment elected for John Silver was a step too far from the realms of humanity. Flint imagined that the promise of Anne’s return had not been insignificant in Max’s sympathy towards their cause.

With baited breath they waited. It was as if even a single exhalation might be enough for the signal to be missed. They had to move at precisely the right moment. This was it. Either the war would be over or Silver would be dead. For Flint, there could be no victory if the latter outcome prevailed. No victory worth having, at least.

The noose was placed around Silver’s neck. The hangman made a derogatory speech that Flint forced himself to ignore. The phantom cripple caught. The monster at the right hand of the devil brought to justice in the eyes of God. The noose was tightened.

Flint had to close his eyes now. He couldn’t watch what might happen next. The nightmares he had suffered the four nights when Silver was being held in their prison had been enough. He could not, for all his fierce bravery and strength, watch the reality of Silver’s death.

He held his breath.

The pistol didn’t fire.

Silver swung.


	2. The battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Flint had seen enough hangings to know that, on average, it took ten to twenty minutes for a man to die, provided his spine had not fractured from the initial jolt. The drop was too short for that in this case meaning that right now, Silver had, at most, just under nineteen minutes left.'

Fuck the plan. The pistol hadn’t fired.

They were meant to hold back until the hangman was killed - that was to be the climax of the distraction, the signal for the battle to commence. But the pistol hadn’t fired. They couldn’t wait any longer. Billy’s pistol hadn’t fired and now Silver was suspended by his throat. Choking to death only metres from where Flint stood now.

The captain was on the move, every Walrus man behind him. They burst through the doors and into the street. It took only a moment for the redcoats assembled there to realise what was going on, and then the chaos began.

Flint had seen enough hangings to know that, on average, it took ten to twenty minutes for a man to die, provided his spine had not fractured from the initial jolt. The drop was too short for that in this case meaning that right now, Silver had, at most, just under nineteen minutes left.

Around him, Flint’s men fanned out to combat the enemies amassed in the street. He let them. Flint cared only about those standing between him and the gallows. Every time he had to raise his sword against an enemy it was another few seconds off Silver’s clock. He quickened his pace towards the body at the end of the noose, he estimated ten minutes must have already gone by given the onslaught of naval officers getting in his way. Billy was on the same trajectory ad him, fighting his way to Silver’s position. He too had a formidable force to content with and was making progress no faster than Flint.

At last, the two reached the gallows within seconds of each other. Flint immediately grabbed Silver’s waist and held his weight to relieve tension on his throat as much as possible while Billy set to work cutting the rope around his neck. Joji, Ben and DeGroot were there with them moments later, dutifully guarding their backs as they lowered Silver to the floor.

Flint took one last glance at the man as he stood with Billy to face the ongoing battle around them, painfully aware that they could do nothing to help Silver until it was over. 

Flint told himself that the unfamiliar ashen hew creeping into Silver’s skin was nothing more than an artefact of the dying light of day. Insisted in his mind that he could see the exposed chest rise and fall with some semblance of breath. He needed Silver to be alive. This war would be for nothing if it came at the cost of the only person he had left.

Flint would not look back at Silver to search for signs of life, not until this was over.

The battle was bloody, messy, loud and frantic. It raged through the street and into the buildings. He vaguely registered Eleanor Guthrie being ushered into a building by Rogers, and felt only a small amount of remorse at the knowledge that Teach was lurking within, hungry to avenge the death of his successor. There was no chance those two would be leaving that building alive.

To his right, Billy and Ben were fighting side by side in a strange synchrony for two men who had known each other for such a short period of time. But he and Silver had similarly become unexpectedly consonant within days of their first interaction, leading now to the almost perfect way in which their voices synergised to ensure they had complete control over the minds of those around them.

Flint forced his mind to return to the fight. Thoughts of his fallen partner would do nothing towards the winning of this battle. Instead he focused on the feeling of the sword in his hand and the warmth of freshly spilt blood on his exposed forearms, face and neck - not his blood. Blood of anyone who dared challenge him. He let every demonic part of himself be unleashed on this battle field. Their victory would mark the end of a need for those demons. He would let them fly just one last time. He was glad Silver was not able to see it.

The carnage continued for what might have been hours or perhaps only minutes. Time was as much a blur as the mass of men fighting for whatever they deemed the right cause. Fighting for the future they saw for Nassau.

Eventually the lieutenant whose throat Flint had slit was not replaced by another. He waited with blood thrumming, and still no new enemy reared before him. Sword never dropping, he gazed around. All he could hear was his harsh breath and erratically beating heart. He searched with carnal eyes but still no enemies came forth.

Billy, close by even now, seemed similarly caught between battle rage and astonishment. The street was deathly silent and unmoving. Everyone still standing appeared bewildered by the prospect that this might be it. They might have reclaimed their home and won the war.

Somewhere up above, Jack Rackham called down from a balcony. The governor and Eleanor Guthrie were dead. Two heads held aloft in Anne’s hands beside him were all the confirmation the street needed. There was cheering, joyous noise erupting from the men. But not from Flint.

He fell to his knees beside Silver and reached for his lacerated neck. His hands were shaking from the adrenaline of the fight and the fear that his fingers might make contact with cold, lifeless flesh. When he finally managed to place a steady touch on the side of Silver’s throat, there was something there. A pulse. Weak, but present. And to accompany it, haggard breathing from Silver’s parted lips.

Flint only barely registered Billy’s presence at his side and the growing number of his crew surrounding them, the joy of victory replaced by concern for their beloved quartermaster. The captain lifted Silver gently from the ground to hold him close so he could listen to that breath. He needed to hear the proof that Silver was still with him. Silently and uncaring of the company around him, Flint began to cry as he listened to Silver’s weak inhalations and sharp exhalations. Every breath was a blessing that drew more tears from his eyes.

Howell was knelt opposite him now. There was a cut on his face, staining one side of his shaggy hair red.

“Captain,” The whispered title gently shook Flint from his storm of emotions. Discretely wiping tears from his cheeks and eyes with his free hand, which had until now been running through Silver’s blood-soaked hair, he looked back to Howell with a nod.

He had to swallow thickly and take several deep breaths before he dared to speak, “Billy. Gather the men. I want everyone accounted for by nightfall.”

He allowed Howell to take Silver from him as he stood to take control of the street. Nassau would only remain theirs if they ensured it fell quickly into a stable governance of their making. And this meant staying off impending post-battle chaos. Flint was the only one present and conscious able to bring these men to order, and he had a responsibility to see this victory through.

Flint’s words were on the task at hand, as powerful and emotive as ever, but his eyes kept flitting to Silver’s limp form as he was carefully carried to the inn by his crew, and his mind never wavered from the man even after he had disappeared from view and the sun had disappeared over the horizon to call an end to the final day of their war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always very happy-making! And thank you so much for comments on the last chapter! I am not used to writing anything beyond drabbles (well anything at all really), so it made me so happy that people kudos-button-pressed and commented on this! :)


	3. The inn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'With every step Flint’s stomach grew tighter. Nerves growing into fear and fear into terror. What if he had been mistaken? What if adrenaline from the fight had tricked his desperate, pleading mind into believing that he had heard Silver breath and felt his pulse? The empty expression on Max’s face had offered no reassurance that his destination held anything more than his lover’s corpse.'

By the time Flint returned to the inn, night had long since settled over Nassau. The flickering glow of lanterns and candles in the streets and buildings created shadows that danced through the town, erratic participants in a ghostly memory of the manic battle that had taken place there mere hours before.

The gallows stood as a dark monolithic reminder of what Flint had nearly lost that day. He cast it a sickened glance as he neared the building, unable to dispel from his mind the image of Silver’s limp form swinging beneath the horrific thing. The thought brought with it a cold, creeping anxiety that didn’t dissipate even as he crossed the threshold and stepped into the bright interior of the inn.

Were the circumstances otherwise, the scene that lay before him might have been a gratifying sight. The interior of the inn resembled more a hospital than a brothel, with Max’s whores and Madi’s liberated slaves working together as a team of dedicated nurses, tending dutifully to the injured survivors. They were assisted by several members of his and Teach’s crews, who busied themselves by ferrying buckets of water to and from the kitchen, or preparing bandages and makeshift beds for their injured comrades.

Flint scanned the large courtyard in search of Silver. He felt the cold unease encroaching further when he did not find him among the injured gathered there. He searched again, breath hastening just slightly with the growing uncertainty, but instead of finding the bright blue orbs he sought, Flint’s eyes locked with those of Max. She was stood, bandaging the arm of some man Flint may or may not have recognised, and looked every bit as lost as he felt. Devoid of makeup and with her hair in a simple bun, she had evidently been prepared to tend the fruits of a bloodbath this day.

She glanced briefly upwards, directing his eyes to an ajar door leading from the balcony above her, before returning her hollow gaze to the task before her. Numbly Flint let his legs guide him towards the stairs. Bodies moved around him like the flow of a thick tide, parting to grant him passage.

With every step Flint’s stomach grew tighter. Nerves growing into fear and fear into terror. What if he had been mistaken? What if adrenaline from the fight had tricked his desperate, pleading mind into believing that he had heard Silver breath and felt his pulse? The empty expression on Max’s face had offered no reassurance that his destination held anything more than his lover’s corpse.

The unease grew as he climbed the stairs up to the balcony. His footsteps were like the steady toll of a bell, reverberating through his body. The world about was a blur of noise and colour, his breath quick, his hands clammy. As he crossed the few metres to the room’s entrance, he could hear Howell’s voice coming from within, but no words registered in his frantic mind. When Flint finally reached the door and pushed it open enough to see inside, he paused at the sight.

A woman he recognised as being one of Madi’s, was holding up Silver’s limp form, allowing Howell access to his torso, around which the doctor had just started wrapping clean bandages. Flint could have laughed had he the energy to do so. People didn’t tend the wounds of the dead. The panic that had descended so gradually upon him fell quickly away as joy overcame him.

But that elation became twisted into something sickening as his mind finally managed to register the details of the scene before him. With the wounds now cleaned, the extent of the damage to his husband was painfully clear.

Deep gashes criss-crossed every inch of exposed flesh, layering upon each other in an unkempt array. Some would take weeks to heal, others several months, but all would leave some remnant of their existence as a permanent reminder of the torture the man had been forced to endure.

Flint’s memories went unbidden to countless nights the two had spent together in his cot, on his desk, in his bed at the maroon camp. Wandered unwillingly to the feeling of Silver’s smooth contours as Flint traced the lines of sinewy muscles down his back with calloused fingers. Lingered on the moments when he would follow the gentle curve of Silver’s spine with tender kisses, as soft as the skin they were planted on. He remembered what it felt like to place firm hands on that perfectly formed back as he thrust into Silver. The way his lover’s body arched in response.

Now that skin, those muscles, that back was marred irreparably. Another mutilation of the beautiful body. A nauseating companion to the gnarled remainder of his left leg.

Flint couldn’t move. He just stood at the door frozen in place, staring at the disfigurement before him. He was afraid to enter the room as if somehow approaching any closer would awaken Silver and force him to experience the pain unconsciousness was protecting him from. Howell must have sensed his presence though. The doctor stood upright and turned to him, neatly handing the pile of bandages to his assistant.

“Captain,” He took a step towards Flint and gave him a momentary once-over, “I will send for you as soon as we have finished with Mr. Silver, but for the time being might I suggest tending to your own wounds?”

Flint followed Howells eyes as he motioned to the blood seeping through his dark shirt in places. Shallow cuts, relatively speaking, but some were deep enough to fester if left alone. He looked to Silver’s unconscious form, hesitant to turn away, but Howell was already pushing his captain out of the room. He closed the door behind him with a resonant click. A resolute signal that he was not to re-enter.

Once out on the balcony, Flint gradually dragged himself from his stupor. With a final glance to the tightly shut door he headed back down the stairs and towards an empty chair far removed from the bustle that filled the centre of the space. He collapsed heavily onto the wooden seat and willed away a growing headache. Somewhere in the distance there was music. Outside, or perhaps in the tavern. A fiddle and some drums. Shouts to accompany it, or maybe that was someone singing - it was always hard to tell one from the other in this town.

A silhouetted form appeared suddenly before him pulling Flint from his unformed thoughts. He looked up to see Max standing there. Her eyes were filled with a peculiar combination of sadness and triumph, a combination mirroring the tempest in Flint’s own mind.

“Take off your shirt.” She ordered, setting a bucket of clean water down on the floor beside him. Flint obeyed and allowed her to begin washing his wounds.

Neither spoke, and for that Flint was glad. He imagined her mind was as adrift in memory and rumination as his. Whatever her feelings for Eleanor now, she had loved her once, and that was not something so easily discarded. To lose someone you once cared so greatly for, and to hear those around you celebrate that loss, was painful. But at the same time knowing that the loss had afforded you a permanent, stable future alongside another love. Max must have felt glee and guilt in equal measure.

Flint understood the clash of emotions. He felt both keenly.

The war won, their victory. Achieved without losing forever the thing he held most dear in this world. Elation could not begin to describe the feeling. And yet that precious thing, the man he held within his heart and cherished in his mind, had been forced to suffer indignation and indescribable pain in order to obtain that victory. He was forced to suffer such things because of Flint, and not for the first time.

A piece of soft white cloth was shoved abruptly into his face. He looked up to see Max now standing over him, eyebrows raised expectantly. Apparently she had finished. And judging by the impatient expression she wore, she had finished some time ago.

“A clean shirt,” Her accent was thick and voice tired, “It would not do for my hard work to be ruined by you putting that thing back on.” She motioned with her head to his discarded, most likely irreparable, garment. He realised absently that at some point soon he would need to find a tailor and acquire some new clothes. For him and for Silver. The man would look excellent in a fitted tunic, he thought, adorned with a silk sash of colour matching the azure of his eyes.

Flint almost smiled at the thought as he pulled the shirt over his head. It was somewhat too long, but at least was not drenched in the blood of various unnamed enemies.

He watched for a long moment the swirl of contradictory emotions in Max’s eyes. Finally, Flint reached forward and, gently taking her head in his hands, placed a kiss upon her forehead just as he had done with Eleanor years ago. Before all of this. Back when their hopes for this place had been aligned.

With that he turned and walked back up the stairs leaving Max with her thoughts and the warmth of fresh tears on her cheeks.

Howell was alone in the room with Silver when Flint arrived. He was stood at the wooden dressing table carefully packing away various tools. A pile of blood-soaked cloths lay on the dresser to his side and on the floor below a similarly reddened bucket of water. He jolted slightly on hearing the door open, nerves still on edge from the battle. On seeing Flint, however, Howell relaxed and continued tidying the space.

“He will need a lot of rest.” The doctor was speaking in a matter-of-fact tone betrayed by the concern evident on his face, “It will take time, but provided we are able to stay off an infection, he should recover.”

He exchanged places with Flint at the door, locking eyes with him briefly.

“Try to get some rest, captain.” He offered a small smile and a nodded goodnight before heading out the room. The door shut behind him with a soft click at last leaving Flint alone with his love.

Silver was lying on his right side beneath a thin sheet that appeared nearly as fragile as the man beneath it. In the soft light emanating from two lanterns, Flint could see clearly now the ugly mark marring his throat. A morbid shadow left by the coarse rope of the noose, hidden in part by wayward curls that traced the contours of Silver’s neck.

His breathing was still shallow, but steady now. Flint blessed the sight of the sheet softly rising and falling with each breath. Silver’s frame was thinner than it should be, a result of days without food in the prison, and his skin still too pale beneath his tan. He was far from well, but he was alive, and for tonight, that was enough.

Flint walked to the bedside and reached out to stroke Silver’s exposed cheek. A tender brush of calloused fingers over soft skin. A touch laden with the totality Flint’s emotions in that moment. Relief, guilt, desire, love.

He pulled over a chair and sank wearily into it. He felt the exhaustion of the past few days finally come crashing down onto him. And now, with Silver alive before him, he was ready to embrace it. He took Silver’s hand in his and placed a kiss upon his wrist, relishing the sensation of the gentle pulse against his lips. Laying his head beside their hands, Flint at last welcomed the encroaching darkness of sleep, allowing himself to be lulled into it by the soft sound of Silver’s breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments. Honestly, they make me so insanely happy! :)


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